


Spin for You (Like Your Favorite Records Used To)

by QuickLikeLight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - College/University, Canon Compliant, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight
Summary: Who is Scott McCall now? He wonders idly as the elevator dings for the first floor. He catches Stiles’ sideways look and smiles, gets a soft smile in return. More importantly, he thinks, what does Scott McCall want?Or, five times Scott and Stiles got coffee as friends and one time they didn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [static_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/gifts).



> Title is from FOB's "Favorite Record." This is for my dear Ana - I hope you enjoy it darling!

The coffee shop just off campus is a hole in the wall that Scott misses completely the first time he walks past it. His head’s a little mixed up as it is, trying to get used to the campus at UC Davis, and the address Stiles texted him earlier pings on his navigation about half a block too late. He has to double back, hefting his backpack higher on his shoulders and checking all the building numbers before he finds it - Higher Grounds, independent coffee shop. As soon as he walks in, he can tell why Stiles likes it - the walls are covered in chalkboard paint and chalk drawings from years of customers, the floor looks like someone swirled rainbow paint in messy loops all over it, and there are couches and bean bags in addition to the regular chairs and tables. Everything smells like coffee beans, and the girl at the register seems genuinely pleased when he asks for a small drip coffee.

“How did you find this place?” he asks when he finally finds Stiles, hunkered down on a sofa near the back, his laptop in his lap. Stiles holds up a finger to ask him to hold that thought before clicking furiously at his trackpad. He could be doing homework, Scott guesses, but he’s probably actually playing video games.

“Got a flyer at orientation,” Stiles says finally, closing his laptop and taking a big sip of his latte - obviously too soon, because he immediately pulls the cup away and fans his mouth, tongue sticking out.

“Hot?” Scott can’t help but laugh a little. He takes a much smaller sip of his own coffee, cooled off as it is by half and half and lots of stirring. It’s delicious, just what he needs after a whirlwind first day.

“You guessed it,” Stiles says a little bitterly, but he takes another sip seconds later, this one apparently more manageable.

“How were your classes?” Scott asks, making himself at home in an armchair across from Stiles.

“Fine, whatever, mostly boring. We just did syllabi in English 101 and Sociology. My poli sci class didn’t even meet today - our professor is apparently at a conference or something, so they just e-mailed the syllabus out and we’re starting class on Wednesday.”

Scott nods and sips, reveling in the experience. It’s his first day of college. He’s here, in Davis, having coffee with Stiles, talking about classes like actual college students. It’s so mundane he could pinch himself, but doesn’t for fear he’ll wake up to a reality where he didn’t get to do this. If he’s dreaming he doesn’t want to stop.

“Ready for biology tomorrow? I can’t believe that’s our only class together. I figured we’d have basically the same schedule this year,” Scott says, pointing out the one dark spot on a thus far golden experience. Stiles shrugs, but Scott can see the hint of a frown around his eyes and mouth.

“I’m just glad we’re able to do bio together. You know I hate dissections. I’m counting on you, bro.”

“What, to get you through the lab like we did in high school?” Scott laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

Stiles grins, obviously pleased, and takes another sip of his coffee, apparently sufficiently cooled. When he finishes he sets the cup down on the little table between them, sprawls back across the sofa, and asks the question Scott’s been asking himself all day: “Can you believe we’re really here?”

“Hardly.” Scott already got a text from Lydia this morning, sending love and well wishes from Stanford, and a selfie from Malia at Woodland Community College nearby. He had lunch with Kira in the cafe on campus and sat through his first two classes. Still, it feels like the other shoe is going to drop any moment now and he’ll wake up in Beacon Hills, tied to a giant tree stump in the woods. He fights the feeling, though, pushes back against the thoughts of helplessness and hopelessness. He’s here. He made it. And so did everyone else. “I’m just glad we’re together.”

“Same,” Stiles says, and he raises his little paper coffee cup in the air, toasting. “To the pack.”

Scott toasts with him, feeling a little silly and a lot happy. “To the pack.”

He drinks. It’s delicious.

~❄~

Three weeks into the semester, things feel much more real. The workload in particular feels more real than anything Scott’s experienced in a long time, and he’s desperately glad he took Deaton’s advice and decided not to work during the semester. He brings home hours of reading every week, and he’s not sure how Stiles is getting by in his classes with as little as he’s cracking his books. Still, when Stiles suggests they go see the college improv troupe at the amphitheater, Scott’s more than happy to put the books away for an hour.

It’s a beautiful September afternoon, and Scott has to squint to find Stiles where he’s sitting on the stone steps, the sunlight so bright it nearly blinds him. He jogs down the steps, carefully avoiding bumping into the group of coeds huddled nearby.

“Hey, you made it,” Stiles says, gripping Scott by the shoulder and squeezing. “I’m surprised - there’s no, like, books here, you know? This isn’t the library or anything.”

Scott rolls his eyes and bats Stiles’ hand away from his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. You’d probably be better off if there were,” Scott teases back. He spies a coffee cart nearby and checks his watch - ten minutes early, time for coffee. “I’m going to grab a drink. You want anything?”

“Sure, get me something on ice,” Stiles says instantly. It’s two in the afternoon, so this is probably Stiles’ third coffee of the day, but Scott _did_ ask. He takes the steps back up two at a time, conscious of all the people coming to fill up the open spaces in the amphitheater. There’s a short line at the coffee cart, and as he waits a girl approaches Stiles to talk to him. Scott cringes inwardly - Stiles isn’t great with… _well_ … anyone - and his ears tune in to their conversation before he can stop himself.

“My friend?” Stiles asks. “Sorry, no - he’s uh. Not available.”

“That’s too bad,” the girl says, and she looks up toward the line where Scott’s standing with a disappointed expression. Scott flushes instantly. He knows she can’t see his face; without werewolf sight he wouldn’t be able to make out the features of hers either. Still, it’s a novelty to have someone interested in him.

Stiles, though - why did he say Scott wasn’t available? Scott ponders it as he gives the man at the cart their order and waits for the cold espresso to be poured over ice, added to milk and syrup and stirred. Below, he watches as Stiles’ knee bounces, a tell-tale sign of discomfort. He waits, but Stiles doesn’t look up at him, avoids looking back entirely, and he wonders -

“That’ll be $10.50,” the guy with the cart says, and Scott digs out his flex cash card to pay him, train of thought thrown off course.

“Thanks sir,” he says quietly, stuffing his card back in his pocket and gathering up his cups.

“No problem. Next!”

Scott makes his way back down to Stiles on the steps just as the troupe is filing out onto the stage.

“Excited for the show?” he asks, offering Stiles his coffee, and biting back the _other_ question on his tongue: _why tell her I’m not single?_  

“Sure,” Stiles smiles, broad and sincere, no sign of avoiding Scott’s eyes, no sign of hiding anything at all. It’s so rare to see, that genuine outflash of happiness on Stiles’ face, Scott can’t help but smile back. He buries his question in the back of his mind to suss out some other time and takes a long drink of his iced coffee: cold, smooth, and slightly sweet.

~❄~

Scott’s phone dings in his pocket and he excuses himself from the conversation he was half-listening to so he can check it. Kira said she’d be at this party if she finished her essay in time, and he swipes open the screen expecting to see a text from her. Instead, it’s a garbled text from Stiles, who’s -

Who’s across the room, _standing on a table_.

“Listen - listen -” Stiles is saying, wobbling a little on his high perch. Scott starts toward him immediately, pushing his way through the crowded frat house to try and get to the unsteady table where Stiles is making his impromptu speech debut. “I am - I am not smart. I am - pretty dumb -”

Someone across the room yells, “We know,” but Stiles does nothing more than flip off that general direction and continue.

“But my - my Scott, there he is, he’s right there -” Stiles points at him, overextending himself and stumbling, his feet dangerously close to the table’s edge. Scott reaches the table just in time to catch Stiles, cradling him in both arms bridal style. Stiles continues slurring, as if he never got interrupted. “He’s right there. He’s so, so smart.”  

“Thanks, Stiles,” Scott says, blushing despite himself. He isn’t sure why, just that something about Stiles’ unbridled enthusiasm for his intelligence makes him warm all over.

“Strong too,” Stiles hiccups. Scott rolls his eyes and slowly sets Stiles back on his feet. He keeps one arm wrapped around Stiles’ waist and lets Stiles drape himself over Scott’s shoulders as they head for the door, the crowd around them parting to watch them go.

“Too much to drink?” Scott asks as the cool October breeze hits their faces. The frat house was packed, too full of undergrads drinking cheap alcohol and smoking enough to make Scott’s eyes water. The fresh air outside feels so good that he realizes just how bad being inside felt.

“Whaddaya talkin’ about,” Stiles slurs digging in his pocket for his keys. He doesn’t even grumble when Scott takes them, just uses the hood of the Jeep to walk himself around to the passenger’s side.

 _Sorry about the party_ , Scott texts Kira from the driver’s seat. _Stiles overindulged. Going home early._

 _Still workin on my essay :) !_ She texts back, and Scott breathes a little sigh of relief. At least she won’t be disappointed.

“Where ya taking me Scotty?” Stiles asks, his head hanging awkwardly limp, like he’s too tired to keep it up.

“Home,” Scott says, but Stiles grabs his hand on the shifter and squeezes it.

“What if we said we were going to go home, but really, we went to get pancakes?” he suggests, as if there’s someone back at the dorm keeping track of them. Scott laughs, shaking his head.

“Are you seriously hungry? Will that help with the, uh, drunken stupor?”

“Definitely,” Stiles agrees, before Scott’s words catch up with him and he scowls. “Not a stupor. Just… drunken.”

“Fine,” Scott says, pulling his hand reluctantly from Stiles’ so he can put Roscoe into gear. His skin tingles where the cool air hits it. It’s funny - he didn’t feel anything unusual while Stiles was holding onto him, but the absence of his hand is a physical thing, a lack. He shakes the thought away as he drives toward the breakfast place he and Stiles frequent, a twenty-four hour diner called The Golden Nugget on 8th street. Next to him Stiles looks like he could be sleeping, except every now and then he squishes up his face as if he’s smelling something bad and then yawns widely.

“You still with me?” Scott asks, whipping into the parking lot.

“Are pancakes involved?” Stiles cracks one eye open, the golden light of the fluorescent sign above making a stripe on his face, changing the shape of it. He looks alien, almost, with flattened out cheeks and dark eyes, and Scott shivers to see it. He’s glad when Stiles sits up straight, already swinging his legs out of the Jeep.

“Pancakes and coffee,” Scott promises. The walk in together, side by side. The twin smells of coffee and syrup are nearly overpowering, like the party but sweeter, tastier. They find their booth in the back and squeeze in, Scott with his back to the door and Stiles with his to the wall, where he can see everyone who comes in and out. All Scott can see is Stiles. He finds he doesn’t mind.

“Coffee?” the waitress asks, bored. Scott slides the chipped mugs on the table toward her and nods.

“Two please.”

~❄~

He’s been studying for nine hours straight when Stiles shows up at the library with a cup of coffee in hand and a determined look on his face.

“No, no no, I told you I needed -” Scott starts.

“You told me you needed to study for a test,” Stiles interrupts, putting the coffee down in front of him. “You did not say you were going to be gone until _two o’clock in the morning_. Drink up, it’s decaf.”

“It’s two o’clock?” Scott asks, a little dazed, as he picks up the cup and takes a sip. It’s pretty good, for decaf.

“It’s 2:18, to be exact,” Stiles huffs. He pulls Scott’s book away and shuts it with all of Scott’s notes inside it. “Your test is in seven hours. You need rest, and a good breakfast tomorrow morning. Whatever’s on that exam, you’ve covered it, I promise.”

“It’s the biggest test of the semester other than the final,” Scott says, but he knows Stiles is right. He needs food and rest, the warmth of his bed, something to still the whirlwind of facts in his mind currently making him dizzy and exhausted. He takes another sip of the coffee Stiles brought and then nods his head in acquiescence.

“If I don’t get some sleep I’ll probably forget everything I studied tomorrow,” he admits, and starts gathering up his things. Stiles grabs Scott’s bag and shoves his book into it, careful not to let any of his notes slip out. He tosses it over his own shoulder and heads for the elevator, not even checking to see if Scott is following.

For a second, Scott just watches. He watches the way Stiles walks, how he moves with Scott’s heavy bag on his back and his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. He looks at how broad Stiles’ shoulders are, how strong they look, how at ease he is since they came to Davis and started avoiding supernatural disasters at every turn. Scott’s mouth goes dry as Stiles finally turns and nods his head toward the elevator, urging Scott to hurry up. He takes another sip of the coffee, telling himself it’s the drink that’s leaving him warm all over, that’s making his stomach twist in a knot.

“You coming Scotty?” Stiles asks as the elevator dings, and Scott has to hurry to catch up before the door closes on Stiles’ foot.

It stays on his mind; the way Stiles looks, the way he moves, the way his eyes linger on Scott sometimes when he thinks Scott isn’t paying attention. They’ve shared a lot of things since coming to college: a room, late nights, early mornings, lunches, secrets, coffee. There’s a feeling there under the surface that Scott wants to poke, like rubbing a sore tooth with his tongue. Not that the feeling is _sore_ , necessarily - but it’s different, sticks out where it shouldn’t, radiates through him in ways that leave him occasionally breathless. Especially times like this, where Stiles is quietly looking at him from across the elevator, giving him time and space to think in a way he never used to.

“Why’d you come get me?” Scott asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“If I hadn’t, would you have come home to sleep?” Stiles counters, hefting Scott’s bag higher on his shoulder.

“I would have, eventually.” Scott shrugs. He’s used to sleepless nights - it seems like he’s done nothing but study since before midterms began, and now finals loom on the horizon like a dark cloud.

“You work too hard,” Stiles says, scuffing his foot on the rough elevator flooring. “I worry about you when you don’t come home.”

“Thanks,” Scott says softly, staring at his toes. “I just… there’s so much riding on me being here, you know? I want to do well. I want to keep my scholarship, maybe earn another one. We gave up so much to finally get here, and I don’t want to waste a minute of it.”

“And you aren’t,” Stiles agrees with him. “But you know… college isn’t all about what happens in the classroom. Sometimes you have to get out and experience stuff, even if that means not doing your algebra homework. Or not doing your algebra extra credit assignments, since you don’t need them anyway.”

“I might!” Scott laughs. There’s truth in what Stiles is saying, but it’s easier sometimes to just bury his head in his books than it is to think about starting life over outside of Beacon Hills. At Davis he isn’t the True Alpha, he isn’t the vet’s assistant, he isn’t Melissa’s son - or, he is all those things, but they’re secondary to the new person he’s becoming.

 _Who is Scott McCall now?_ He wonders idly as the elevator dings for the first floor. He catches Stiles’ sideways look and smiles, gets a soft smile in return. _More importantly_ , he thinks, _what does Scott McCall want?_

For the first time in a long time, it seems to matter.

~❄~

Scott rises early even when he doesn’t have to. He gets up with the Friday morning sun and it feels late. His sneakers squeak a little on the tile floor of their room as he laces up and gets ready for his morning jog.

“Don’t go,” Stiles says, eyes still closed, breathing still even. He could be asleep - it wouldn’t be the first time he’s talked to Scott in his sleep - but then he says, “It’s the last day of the semester before finals. Please spend at least one day being a lazy asshole like me so I don’t feel so bad about it.”

“Running makes me feel better,” Scott laughs, but something in Stiles’ voice stills his fingers on his laces.

“I’ll make you feel better,” Stiles jokes, and Scott flushes uncomfortably, though he tries not to let it show. Stiles has been doing that more often, making jokes about them being together the way he used to when they were younger, before he ever met Malia, when Lydia still ignored him in the hallways. Sometimes… sometimes it doesn’t feel so much like a joke, like now, when he’s staring at Scott with earnest eyes and a little frown playing at his mouth.

“This will make me feel better,” Scott says, feeling like a coward as he gets up and starts their Keurig machine to brewing a cup of coffee - the nice light roast he buys in a big box and goes through too much of.

“Mm, me too,” Stiles says instantly. If he’s disappointed by Scott’s reaction, he doesn’t let it show. But then, why would he be disappointed? _He’s just joking_ , Scott reminds himself.

“Want a cup?” Scott pulls his own out from under the drip and replaces the K-Cup with Stiles’ preferred Caramel Vanilla Cream flavor. He doesn’t even wait for the affirmative before pressing the brew button and shoving Stiles’ Yoda mug under the stream of dark, sweet-smelling coffee.

“You’re too good for me,” Stiles says, and the turn of phrase catches Scott’s attention.

“Too good _to_ you,” he tries to correct. “And no, I’m not.”

“Too good for me, and yeah, you are.”

“Why would you say that?” Scott asks, more genuinely upset than he feels like he should be. His heart beats faster, his stomach twists, and words come out that he’s been saving, been holding onto for weeks. “Why would you joke around with me like that and then say I’m too good for you? I’m not too good for you. And why did you tell that girl I wasn’t single?”

Stiles frowns, forehead scrunching up adorably - adorably! - and asks, “Wait, what girl?”

“The girl at the improv show, back… well, a while ago. She asked you if I was available and you said no. Why would you say that when you know no one else is even interested in me?”

Stiles sits up, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the window. His face is nearly hidden from Scott, but he can make out enough expression to tell that Stiles is serious when he says, “Maybe I’m interested in you.”

“Please don’t be joking,” Scott asks quietly, shuffling forward so he can see Stiles’ face better.

“I’ve been trying to tell you ever since the summer,” Stiles admits, and Scott can’t help himself - he crawls onto Stiles’ bed on all fours, hesitant and soft as he reaches for Stiles. Stiles reaches back.

“Since the summer?” he asks, a little awed. He’s been so caught up with school, he didn’t notice - but now that he knows it starts slotting into place. The girl at the amphitheater. The drunken proclamations. The decaf at two a.m. The whole time, Stiles has been trying to tell him.

“There are things they don’t teach you in college,” Stiles says with a shrug. “How to tell your best friend you’re in love with him happens to be one of them.”

 _In love_.

Scott’s heart skips a beat, and the twists in his stomach turn to butterflies at Stiles’ words. He tries to speak, but no sound comes out of his mouth. All he can do is lean forward and press his lips gently to Stiles’ mouth, a soft, chaste kiss to show his feelings. He gasps as Stiles’ tongue touches his lips, and Stiles takes advantage of his open mouth, deepening the kiss, escalating everything like Stiles always has. When Scott finally pulls away, he’s breathless and giddy, and he laughs out of sheer joy.

“Something funny?” Stiles asks, color high on his cheeks and hair mussed from Scott’s hands.

“You made me feel better,” Scott says quietly, like he’s afraid that if he talks too loud, he’ll break the spell their dorm room is under and everything will go back to normal. “Just like you said you would.”

“You made me feel pretty good too,” Stiles says, fond smile on his face.

“I love you,” Scott says, and it feels good to say it, sitting on Stiles’ bed and twining their fingers together. “And I - I want you. I want to - uh - date you.”

“How do you date your best friend?” Stiles asks, and it’s clear he isn’t looking for a real answer, but Scott gives him one anyway.

“We could start by getting coffee?”

Stiles kisses him again, quick and then long. When they break apart he nods, eyes bright. “Coffee it is.”

~❄~

Scott wakes up slowly, aware that he’s wrapped up in Stiles in the too-small bed. Stiles’ legs are tangled with his own, long and lean, and his arms keep Scott in place. Stiles’ skin presses against his own, warm and soft under the blankets, and Scott snuggles back further into him. Eventually he’ll have to get up, get his day started, but for now he just wants to lay here and enjoy the quiet.

“You awake?” Stiles asks groggily.

So much for quiet.

“Yeah,” Scott says, trying to disengage. Stiles holds him tight, stilling his movement.

“Don’t wanna get up yet,” he explains, and Scott settles back in. It’s just for a few minutes, he tells himself, curling his body closer to Stiles’ and letting his eyes fall closed once more.

The next time he wakes up, it’s more urgent. He squirms out of Stiles’ hold so he can hop across the cold tile to their shared bathroom. He hears Stiles’ soft giggle as he goes.

“Floor cold?” Stiles asks when Scott comes out, hissing when his feet leave the little rug. He crawls back up onto the bed and Stiles captures him, pulling him down until their bodies are tangled together again.

“Should have worn socks to bed,” Scott says, but he can’t be too upset about it now that he’s warm in Stiles’ embrace.

“I’ll remind you tonight,” Stiles says, though they both know he’ll forget.

They’ve been sharing a bed since they got back from winter break, both squeezing into one little twin. They don’t dare push their beds together, for fear of the RA finding out. Scott daydreams of the day they can afford their own apartment with a full sized mattress. He thinks he might like this just as much, though, when everything boils down to it - likes being pressed together by necessity, being held by Stiles through the night or curling around him in the early morning hours. The thing is, he’s not sure exactly who the new Scott McCall is going to be, what dreams and disasters are around the bend, but he knows this: he wants Stiles Stilinski with every fiber of his being, and having him is a dream he never let himself have come true.

“Love you,” he says, dreamy in the dim light.

“Because I’m going to remind you about your socks?” Stiles asks.

“Because you’re going to forget to remind me about my socks,” Scott corrects.

“That’s okay,” Stiles says. “I love you because even if I remembered to remind you, you’d take them off in your sleep anyway.”

“Good reason to love somebody,” Scott says gravely.

“Trust me,” Stiles says. “I’ve got lots more reasons where that came from.”

Right at that moment, Scott’s stomach growls loudly, making them both laugh.

“Hungry?” Stiles asks, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on Scott’s body. “We could go to breakfast.”

“Sounds good. We could go to the coffee shop down the street?”

“You and your coffee,” Stiles says, like he isn’t just as much of a caffeine junkie as Scott - maybe even more of one.

“Should probably put some clothes on first,” Scott says airily, glancing down at the way their bodies press together, clothes abandoned on the floor from the night before.

“Well that sounds like a terrible idea,” Stiles laughs, pulling Scott closer. Scott knows what he wants, what he’s angling for, so Scott presses a kiss to his mouth, heedless of morning breath. Stiles grins into the kiss, and Scott can’t help but kiss him again and again. His growling stomach is forgotten as Stiles tumbles him back onto the bed and climbs over him, rolling their hips together with a smug smirk.

“Want you,” Scott manages, already breathing hard, and Stiles leans down to rub their noses together, as tender as he can be.

“Thought you wanted coffee,” Stiles says, laughter in his voice.

“Want you and then coffee,” Scott says brightly, and pulls Stiles down for another kiss.

“Okay, alright,” Stiles says between kisses. “Me and then coffee. I can handle that.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is valuable to all fic writers, and I'm no exception. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com).


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